


Vestments

by plingo_kat



Category: Dominion (TV), Legion (2010)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 18:01:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3859615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Exodus 22:27) For that is his covering only, it is his raiment for his skin: wherein shall he sleep? and it shall come to pass, when he crieth unto me, that I will hear; for I am gracious.</p><p>Translated into Russian <a href="https://ficbook.net/readfic/3807371/9931570">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vestments

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thisiswherethefishlives](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisiswherethefishlives/gifts).



> The fic about Michael's love of trashy v-necks is here! Well, I say love. I say v-necks. What I actually mean is that this is a fic about Michael and clothing in general.

> _(job 26:6) …is naked before him, and destruction has no covering._

Michael arrives on the Earthen plane fully garbed, with collar and wings and sword – by the time he is done, he has only his weapon left. Blood drips down his back to spatter with gentle _plip, plip_ sounds on the black tar road, startlingly cold against the bare soles of his feet.

He breathes deeply in and out, once and again, to feel the air fill his physical lungs and the beat of his physical heart pumping blood through his veins, out of his body onto the beautiful uncaring earth; to think: _I am coming, Gabriel._

To think, as all humans have thought at least once in their lives since the dawn of time: _Father, you are wrong._

_You are wrong, but I will make it right._

 

> _(ephesians 6:15) and your feet shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace;_

Michael learns from his mistakes. When he meets Jeep for the third time, he has his wings and his sword and shoes that lace up over the ankles, sturdy leather and rubber that won’t fall off in flight, that absorb the shock of landing.

“Nice boots,” Jeep says. “You get them off a dead Marine or something?”

“Gross,” Charlie says, rolling her eyes. The Chosen One gurgles and she smiles down at him, enraptured. Michael offers the boy a finger.

“I took them from a store in Sacramento,” Michael says. He watches Alex grasp at his finger and shakes the boy’s hand gently from side to side. Alex grips tighter, yanking back – the boy is fine, healthy and strong, will be a good soldier one day. A good savior. “Are you three all right?”

“We—”

“Yeah—”

Charlie and Jeep try to answer at the same time. Both of them stop after the first word and Jeep gestures at Charlie, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling as he grins from under his beard.

“We’re fine, Michael. No angelic activity except for you. Our neighbors like us, Jeep found a job, and Alex doesn’t even cry that much, do you?” She address the last bit to Alex, jogging him a little in her arms.

“Ah!” Alex shouts, smacking his hands together. He reaches out for Michael. “Wah!”

“Seems like he likes you.” Jeep steps closer, not quite enough to touch but enough to indicate he wants to. Charlie leans in towards him just the tiniest amount.

“That’s good.” Michael offers his finger again.

Alex laughs.

 

> _(Samuel 13:31) then the king arose, and tare his garnments, and lay on the earth; and all his servants stood by with their clothes rent._

“Look,” Noma says, arms crossed over their chest. “You can’t go around like that, none of the humans are going to take you seriously.”

Michael looks down at his shirt. It has a sheep and the words FLEECE NAVIDAD on it.

“It was the first one I found,” he explains. “My last one was sliced open by a Lower.”

Noma sniffs. They, Michael notices, have chosen to wear more traditional leathers, though in a more modern form. It frames their figure well, accentuating curves and giving them the sleek air of a predator.

Perhaps they have a point.

“I suppose you have something in mind,” he says.

“Well…” Noma unfolds their wings and gives them an experimental flap. Dust whips into the air. “I found an abandoned mall. We can get you something there.”

Michael unfurls his own wings, spreading them and rolling his shoulders to feel the sun on his pinfeathers.

“Lead the way.”

 

> _(exodus 32:34) therefore now go, lead the people unto the place of which I have spoken unto thee: behold, mine Angel shall go before thee: nevertheless in the day when I visit I will visit their sin upon them._

The leaders of the human resistance are, in fact, suitably impressed when Michael drops down upon them on the roof of the Bellagio, landing in a crouch with his wings arced around his body in case of any nervous reactions involving weaponry.

“It’s him,” he hears Jeep say. “It’s Michael.”

When Michael folds his wings back in a neat flip, Jeep’s haggard face creases in a smile. Michael nods back, a softening of his mouth the only expression he allows to leak past the blank mask of his face. Jeep knows the value of a first impression. He understands.

General Reisen is a tall man, straight-backed and stern-faced, imposing for a human. He is dressed sharply in a military uniform and Michael can see – can _feel_ how he has managed to hold together desperate refugees in the midst of war. Next to him is a man of similar age, arguably more handsome, with shrewd eyes and a mouth used to smiling. Now lines are carved into the corners of his lips from worry and fear and grief. Like Jeep. Like almost every human Michael has seen, these past two years.

“Archangel,” Reisen says with a short bow. “Our thanks for coming.”

“It’s good to see you again, Jeep,” Michael says. “How is Alex?”

“He’s holding up okay.” Jeep shoots a glance at Reisen and Whele.

“General.” Michael doesn’t move anything but his eyes as he turns his attention away from Jeep. Charlie never liked it when he acted that like that – too creepy, she would say. Too inhuman. Too much like an eight-ball. He remembers, and it prompts him to turn his head as well, to orient his body towards the man he speaks to.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Humans have so many polite lies. “May I introduce David Whele.”

Whele bows too, but keeps his head raised to stare into Michael’s eyes. Michael doesn’t blink at his sardonic tone. “An honor.”

“Thank you.” Michael turns his head to Jeep again. “Why did you call me here?”

“We’re making a city. Well,” Jeep jerked his head toward the two men at his side. “They are.”

“We are building a stronghold,” Whele corrects. “A bastion for humanity against the hordes of heaven.”

“Your support would be invaluable.” Reisen meets his eyes without flinching, which is very impressive for a human.

“I’ll think about it. General Reisen. David Whele.” He nods, turns, and takes Jeep by the arm. “Come.”

“Thanks for hearing us out,” Jeep mutters as they walk away. “I know you—whoah!”

Michael drops them thirty-six floors in the space of four slow heartbeats, gripping Jeep tight around his chest as he flails. When they alight upon the earth Jeep’s face is pale, his fingers white-knuckled in Michael’s coat.

“A little warning would be nice,” he says faintly.

“I’ll remember, next time.” Jeep hasn’t yet loosened his grip. “Can you stand?”

“What? Oh.” Jeep unclenches his hand one finger at a time. He pats the lapels of the coat back into place before stepping away. He only wobbles a little. “Nice threads, by the way.”

Michael blinks, slow, before he remembers what that euphemism refers to. “Thank you. I found it in an abandoned Nordstrom. I took five.”

Jeep _laughs_ loud and relieved and shaky, and Michael knows it isn’t just because he said something funny. Perhaps it’s the war finally catching up to him – perhaps he is merely happy to see Michael again.

“Tell you what,” Jeep says after his chuckles have wound down and he regains his breath. “Alex and I were planning on going scavenging, since he’s at that age where he outgrows his clothes three times a year. You can come with us, maybe pick up something that fits better with the coat than skinny jeans.”

Michael blinks again.

“Skinny jeans,” he says, brow furrowing.

“Yeah, man.” Jeep nudges at Michael’s arm. “Skinny jeans.”

When Michael frowns at him, puzzled, he snorts into a covering palm.

 

> _(Isiah 30:1) Woe to the rebellious children, saith the LORD, that take counsel, but not of me; and that cover with a covering, but not of my spirit, that they may add sin to sin:_

“So.” Alex weighs the dagger in his hand, empyrean steel liquid and light as it slashes through the air. “How do the wings work, exactly?”

“What do you mean?” Michael paces around the boy, one foot in front of the other, heel to toe. Alex’s footwork isn’t nearly so precise – he turns in place, knees bent and arms up in a guard position.

“I mean, how do they not rip through your clothes when they come out? Where do you even keep them?”

Michael rolls a shoulder. “The simple answer is that they’re metaphysical.”

Alex lunges. Michael blocks and whips the blades down and to the side, sending Alex stumbling.

“Fuck!”

“Calm. _Think._ You’ll never overpower an angel, only outmaneuver one. Keep a cool head, Alex.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Alex blinks the sweat from his eyes. “What’s the complicated answer?”

“Not important.” This time Michael goes on the offensive. Alex surges forward, once again trying to pit his strength against an angel’s – but instead of holding the block, he ducks under and kicks out at Michael’s knee.

“Good!” Michael sidesteps the blow. “Much better. This isn’t sparring in the Corp, use any tactic that will gain you the advantage. A debilitating injury for a human is merely an inconvenience for an angel.”

Alex mutters something. Michael pretends not to hear.

By the end of the sparring session, Michael has been forced to extend a wing to deflect a particularly inspired feint. As the blade sparks against his primary coverts he hides a wince.

“Well done.” Alex hands back his dagger hilt first with a weary slouch in his back, shirt soaked through with sweat. Michael wants to touch it, to feel the sticky heat and living salt, wants to take it off to see the words of his Father. He does none of these things.

“So why the trashy v-neck?”

Michael has no answer for this. Gabriel would laugh, he thinks.

“Trashy?” he says.

“Yeah.” Alex squares his shoulders. “It’s so deep you might as well not wear a shirt at all.”

From within the annals of memory, he hears Noma laugh.


End file.
